Terms and Conditions
by AdamantMackay
Summary: Crowley is a salesman for a prestigious insurance company in LA and does not mind his job most days...until Michael Shurley comes in with the most difficult deal known to mankind. (Note: Faceclaim for Michael is Matt Cohen for these purposes)


**Terms and Conditions**

"Mr. MacLeod? Mr. Shurley for you."

Crowley looked up as the client entered. He was tall and lean, powerfully built, with short dark hair, a sharp jaw, and piercing green eyes. Not that Crowley noticed that as he rose to shake the man's hand. "Good afternoon," he greeted formally, his raspy British accent rising above the whir of the small fan on the window sill: the window had jammed three years ago and he had never gotten it fixed. "Crowley MacLeod," he introduced himself.

"I know who you are," said the man in a cold voice that was smooth like polished steel. "And you know who I am, as I provided my full name whilst booking this appointment."

"Michael Shurley," Crowley affirmed with a slight nod, resuming his seat. He gestured graciously for Michael to sit as well, which he did.

" _Just_ Mr. Shurley will suffice, if you please. We are on business," he replied impassively.

Crowley pursed his lips and stifled a sigh, already feeling a headache growing—so he was one of _those._ "Very well, _Mr. Shurley._ " He put a slight emphasis on the words as if to say, _'Are you happy?'_ "How may I help you today?"

"Did you not read the email?" Michael asked, raising an eyebrow. He had remained this company specifically because he had heard well of their competence. He did not expect to be disappointed now.

"If you'll notice, Mr. Shurley, we are a very large and prestigious company," said Crowley dryly. "I have nearly a dozen appointments each day, and you reserved yours weeks ago. Forgive me if I can't remember specifics." He hated clients who thought they were more important than the company itself.

Michael's nostrils flared in scorn—no one spoke to him that way—but he answered calmly, "My brothers and I recently inherited our father's estate. We wish to purchase insurance for it: he had none prior. We also wish to combine this with our various life and vehicular insurances."

"Are you all insured under our company, Mr. Shurley?" This was a routine question.

Michael shook his head. "I am, certainly, but I do not know about my brothers."

Now it was Crowley's turn to give him a scornful look. "I can check our client directory," he told Michael, pulling up the program on his computer. "Their names?"

"Lucifer, Raphael, Gabriel. Common surnames."

Crowley nodded to himself as he typed the name 'Shurley' into the field. Only three names showed up: Michael, Raphael, and Gabriel. "It appears your brother Lucifer is with a different provider," he informed his client.

A sort of outraged grunt issued from the back of Michael's throat. "Of _course_ he is," he muttered scathingly, as if this was somehow Crowley's fault.

"I can still combine your new contract with the other three, however," Crowley offered.

Michael immediately shook his head. "Lucifer will not stand for that. Excuse me for a moment." He stood up and walked over to the door, turning his back to Crowley. There was nowhere to go, but this at least gave the illusion of privacy. Michael dialled his brother's number, willing him to pick up. It was bad enough that Lucifer was already an inconvenience to him, never mind that he would choose this time to be unavailable. But, in keeping with his character, he did not answer Michael's call. The ringing stopped and Lucifer's grating—at least in Michael's opinion—voice came through the receiver. _"Hey, you've reached Luci. I'm probably out causing trouble, so I can't come to the phone right now. Leave a message and I might call you back."_

"Lucifer; it's Michael," said Michael in business-like tones. "We have encountered an obstacle regarding the insurance on the estate. Please return my call as soon as possible. Thank you." Pursing his lips, he hung up and returned to the chair in front of the desk. "Unavailable."

Crowley had gathered that, since he was still in earshot, but he saw no need to point that out. "I'm not quite sure what I can do for you today, then."

"I am," said Michael. He was prepared down to the last detail about the house and his own existing contracts. Pulling a flash drive from his pocket, he handed it to Crowley. "Here."

Crowley raised his eyebrows; at least Michael was semi-prepared. He turned the monitor so they could both see as he pulled up the files the client had provided. They detailed the specifics of the house: the year in which it was built, repairs made to it, money spent on those repairs, square footage, and features. It was an impressive document, to say the least, not to mention the others on the life and car insurance Michael already possessed.

"This, I can work with," Crowley mumbled, grabbing a pen and a piece of printer paper from his desk. He began to jot down rough figures in a wide, sweeping script, making sure to keep his hand as well out of the way as he could. "Do you happen to know if your two brothers have similar arrangements?"

"The files I received from them were by email. They were not nearly as detailed as mine," Michael's voice took on a gloating tone here, "but they will suffice. I can access them for you, if you wish."

Crowley pushed the keyboard over to him. "Take it away."

The process was relatively easy after that—or would have been, if all four brothers had been with the company. Michael did not even have access to the name of Lucifer's provider; he was not even certain Lucifer _had_ insurance. As it stood, depending on what Lucifer already had or what he wanted, there were three different arrangements Crowley could come up with, the essentials of which he had written down.

"I will attempt to reach Lucifer one more time," said Michael wearily, already having a feeling that his brother would not be answering his calls. He hit redial and a line appeared between his brows as the dial tone sounded, heavy and dull, in his ear. _"Hi, you've reached Luci—"_ Michael hung up, an expression of extreme distaste on his face.

"Guess not," Crowley remarked upon seeing the look. It was a shame really: Michael probably would have been attractive if he didn't permanently look like he had smelled a bad smell. Crowley glanced at his watch, a nice piece made of gold that his mother had given him in an attempt to reconnect with her son. He had accepted the watch, but not her apologies for a terrible upbringing. "I have another appointment," he told his client.

"We have not finished," Michael retorted, "and I am not paying for another consultation."

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Well, you can't stay here. Tell you what: we'll meet up for lunch tomorrow—" he did not work on Saturdays— "and you'll have gotten into contact with your brother by that time. We can factor him into the contract and it'll be a done deal." He never did this, so he figured Michael should consider himself lucky.

Michael did not. He stared at Crowley for a moment, his eyes hard and unyielding, before giving the slightest of nods. "Very well. When and where?"

"That little Italian place just down the street. You know, 'Independently Owned and Operated Since 1902!'" Crowley chuckled. The place had just invested in a huge neon sign which proclaimed that fact: the name of the restaurant was nowhere in sight. "Noon-thirty."

"Twelve thirty. Understood," said Michael with an almost military nod. He stood and made for the door.

"Sure you don't want my email, Mr. Shurley?" Crowley called after him. "You know, in case there's a change of plans. You seem like a fellow who would want to be in contact in that sort of situation."

"Unnecessary," said Michael flippantly. "I am going to my brother's house. He cannot ignore me that way. Our plans will proceed without hindrance."

"Famous last words," Crowley muttered, but Michael was already gone.

At precisely twelve-thirty the next day, Crowley was not at the restaurant. Michael, of course, had gotten there early, considering it proper conduct. His scowl deepened as he checked his watch.

Crowley had gotten stuck in traffic, but that was only because he had made a stop to pick up his dry cleaning: he had thought he was making good time. Apparently he had been wrong. He pulled into the parking lot at twelve thirty-six and joined his client by the front entrance at twelve thirty-seven, which Michael found the need to tell him as he approached.

"I can tell time," replied Crowley, with a little more hostility than was necessary.

"Clearly not," said Michael dryly, and then went on to report: "There has been a complication."

"Oh, _really_?" laughed Crowley. "Why didn't you email me?" Michael did not seem to be amused, but Crowley found no surprise in that. "What happened?"

"Lucifer was not at home," Michael said quietly, both irritated and embarrassed that he had been wrong.

"Where is he?"

"I…do not know. I apologize for the inconvenience. A good portion has been taken from both of our days." For once, Michael did not sound as if he was talking to an inferior, and he offered his hand to shake.

Crowley took it, but he held onto it a bit too long to get the other man's attention. "It's not a waste. We're here, it's lunchtime: let's eat."

Michael looked back at him, stunned, and dropped his hand. "What? Why?"

"Well I, for one, am hungry. Aren't you?" Crowley turned towards the door, but looked back over his shoulder when Michael did not answer. " _Well?_ "

"I do not believe that is a good idea," said Michael, apparently standing very straight to cover up the fact that he had been caught off-guard.

"Really?" retorted Crowley. "Well _I_ think that I offered, and that it would be rude to decline, since I'm only here because of you."

That made up Michael's mind. He nodded and followed Crowley inside. Once they were seated, by the window, he fixed Crowley with a hard stare. "And what exactly are we to discuss?"

"What do you normally discuss over lunch?" Crowley asked nonchalantly, flipping through his menu.

"Nothing," said Michael. "I do not usually go out with others."

"Really!" he asked again, surprised this time. He looked up at the man across from him. "Strapping lad such as yourself? Hm, I suppose the demeanour would be a bit of a deterrent." He looked back down at his menu as if the statement had not been scathing.

"What exactly is that supposed to mean?" Michael asked defensively. "Do you find me offensive?"

"Marginally, yes," said Crowley distractedly. He waved a waiter over. "Glass of cognac, if you will, and whatever he's getting."

"Just water, thank you."

"Of _course_ ," muttered Crowley to himself, though it was loud enough for Michael to hear.

"Well, I also find you _marginally offensive_ ," said Michael with a bit of an offended sneer to his tone.

"Let's work to fix that, shall we?"

" _What?_ "

Crowley laughed. "You always seem so perplexed whenever anyone says anything even slightly human to you. If we're going to work together, Michael, I believe we should at least tolerate each other."

"I thought I told you it was—"

"Mr. Shurley, yes," sighed Crowley. "However, your reason for that was that we were in a business setting, which we are no longer in. This is a leisurely lunch."

Michael pursed his lips, but was forced to concede the point. "You would have made an efficient lawyer."

"Is that payback for the demeanour comment?" Crowley chuckled. He nodded his thanks as the waiter brought their drinks. "I had considered it, actually. But I much prefer to screw people over from behind a desk."

"Are you insinuating that you plan on…'screwing me over?'" Michael asked warily, fixing Crowley with a cool gaze from over the rim of his water glass as he drank.

"Oh no, no not at all," said Crowley with a dismissive gesture. "No, not someone as intelligent as you."

Michael gave a small nod. He was at a loss for what else to do. This was the second time in less than five minutes that the man had complimented him, but his conversational patterns were dizzying, to say the least. "Thank you?"

"You're welcome." Crowley leaned forward. "So. Why don't you tell me a bit about your brothers?" They seemed to have an interesting dynamic, from the very little he had seen, and he was eager to learn more.

"I am the oldest," said Michael immediately, as if that was the most important fact. "Lucifer is one year my junior." He paused to take a drink, which gave Crowley the opportunity to comment.

"Sibling rivalry, then? I can't help but notice you don't seem too fond of him."

Michael sighed in exasperation, stating wearily. "I love my brother, truly. I just believe he has made some very poor life choices. And the falling out we had years ago did not help matters."

"Quite the argument, I should think," Crowley remarked, closing his menu and taking a drink, then giving the man across from him his full attention. He was, however, denied an answer by the return of the waiter, who was prepared to take their orders. Michael had apparently known what he was getting the moment he walked in, which made Crowley doubt his earlier statement of not going out much. Once the waiter walked away, a silence fell between them; service in restaurants often had that effect on conversation.

"My father raised us to nearly adulthood," Michael said suddenly. He was not certain why he was imparting this information to Crowley, but this was a social situation, and the man seemed genuinely invested in his words, which was rare for him. Michael was used to dealing with people in a strictly professional fashion. He had not noticed how lonely that was until he had someone to talk to. "But one day he came home and announced his intentions to start a children's shelter. We thought not much of it, even admired him, but that soon changed when he began saying that our first duty was to these children he had taken charge of, and not to him or to our own lives."

"Some sort of midlife crisis?" Crowley hazarded a guess.

"Perhaps," said Michael, shaking his head. "He claimed to have 'found God' while he was away; he left again shortly after that. My father is not a religious man, which made it all the more odd, but he mentioned finding said God within himself."

Crowley rolled his eyes. "I've had several people tell me the same thing. It just means they want to change who they are, but they can't do it themselves, so they pin the blame on God."

Michael refrained from commenting on that, though he did hold a similar cynicism on the matter. "He left us to care for the children; Lucifer would not tolerate that. He left, and he did everything father ever taught us not to do simply to spite him. He…he became very corrupt."

Crowley understood what it was like to want to spite a parent, but he also understood the dangers of losing oneself while doing so. "I travelled down that road once: not fun, trust me."

Michael nodded. "Lucifer almost brought me down with him, but I became self-aware." Not wanting to delve into it any further, he changed the subject. "As for the others: Raphael is younger than Lucifer, but he is often the most mature of us all. While the two of us were fighting, he cared for our youngest brother, Gabriel." He shook his head and smiled a little wistfully.

Crowley's eyes widened marginally: he had been right in his assumption about Michael's looks. The smile transformed him, and he appeared almost celestially good-looking. Crowley shook his head to regain his composure—thankfully, Michael had not noticed. "You…you mentioned the children your father cared for. What's to become of them if you and your brothers take the estate?"

"As far as I am concerned, they are more than welcome to stay," said Michael, the smile gone as quickly as it had come. "Most of them are adults now, but many still live there. The insurance is to protect them more than anything else."

"Do you live there?"

"No." Michael shook his head. "I have not in many years."

Crowley nodded and finished his drink, at a loss for words.

"Do you have any siblings?" Michael asked, having now eased into the conversation.

"No," Crowley chuckled. "At least, none that I know of. Who knows what my mother got up to?"

Michael frowned; it had seemed like a crass comment, especially from someone talking about their mother. "I never knew my mother," he stated, as opposed to saying he was offended by it.

"Lucky you," Crowley commented.

Michael's frown deepened at that. "If you insist."

"If you knew my mother, you would insist too. Trust me." That seemed to be the most Crowley was willing to talk about the subject, so Michael moved on.

"Do you have any children?"

"I might," said Crowley with a shrug. He held up his left hand, which was devoid of any rings. "They're all bastards, though," he chuckled grimly. Michael did not look impressed, so he went on to explain: "I had a son by my ex-wife, but he died in a boating accident. After my divorce, I went a little…'Lucifer,' you might say. I don't know if I have any other children."

"A little 'Lucifer,'" Michael repeated dryly. "I suppose that's a good enough term for it."

"I thought it was clever."

"You think _yourself_ clever."

"Of course. A man has to have something going for him."

"Are your secure job, copious income, and intelligence not good enough for you?" Michael challenged, raising a perfectly arched eyebrow.

"You forgot my good looks," Crowley quipped.

Michael had not, in fact, forgotten Crowley's looks _or_ his voice, but he had seen no need to mention those. "Either way, you have plenty of assets already."

"Yes, but cleverness just completes the package."

"I see."

There was a heavy silence that lasted until their food arrived, Crowley smirking down at his empty glass and Michael regarding him with an air of pensiveness. He had no idea quite what to make of Crowley: this mix-up with the insurance was certainly one of the most interesting experiences of his life. Both men thanked the waiter for the food and began eating without further comment.

Michael looked up. "The food here has improved."

"Ah, so you _have_ been here before." This proved Crowley's earlier theory.

"I never said I had not."

"And with whom did you come?" he asked simply for conversation's sake.

"One of the adopted children," said Michael. "I spent quite a lot of time with many of them, though not as much as Raphael."

"I can't help but wonder at your father's logic in leaving _multiple_ children in the care of four men who clearly already had their own lives." Especially since Michael had already said he did not live in the house with them.

"He left a caretaker with them as well, who was supposed to record their actions: chronicle their lives so that my father would know what he had missed when he returned. He called himself 'the Scribe.' None of us overly liked him."

"He _does_ sound pretentious," Crowley admitted, though that was what he had thought of Michael as well.

"Not pretentious, exactly." Michael pursed his lips trying to think of the word. "More…sickening—in an obscure way."

"Great for children."

"Must you always be so sarcastic?" It was not exactly irritating Michael, but he knew there was a reason those types of people were the way they were.

"Sorry, it comes from years of being jaded." Even that was said in a sarcastic tone, mostly to cover up gross self-confidence issues, which Crowley had no intention of imparting to Michael.

"Do not apologize; I empathize." Michael would never identify himself as jaded: he just knew how the world worked. Labelling it made it a problem and Michael had no time for problems.

Crowley nodded and used his food as an excuse to hesitate, trying to think of what to say next. "So, what do you do for a living?" He figured it had to be something that paid semi-well, considering Michael's fashion choice and the fact that he seemed to have a decent enough amount of income to treat with Crowley's company.

"I am a law attorney," Michael informed him without looking him in the eye.

"Oh." Crowley winced, recalling his earlier patronizing comment about lawyers. "Sorry."

"Are you apologizing for commenting on the nature of my career or expressing your sympathies for my position in pursuing it?" Michael asked sharply.

"Um…yes?" Both.

Michael shook his head with a small amused chuckle, the way one would when dealing with a particularly precocious child. "Apology accepted and sympathies appreciated."

"Thank you," Crowley grunted, trying to maintain some control of the conversation. It seemed to him that the longer he spent with Michael, the more human the other man became. He chuckled to himself as he pictured Michael crying by the end of lunch: it would certainly be following the trend.

"What is it?"

"Hm? Oh, nothing." Crowley waved his hand dismissively.

"It must be something," Michael said peremptorily. "No one laughs at nothing."

"Eat your spaghetti, Michael," Crowley ordered in frustration, though there was really no vehemence in his voice.

Michael scoffed and rolled his eyes, but did as he was told. He saw no point in petty bickering. As much as it pained him to admit it, neither the conversation nor his company was unpleasant. Michael did not often enjoy socializing, as he considered most people to be beneath him, but Crowley had earned at least a begrudging respect, if not admiration. Michael also did not stand for being ordered around—he had put more than one person in their place for talking down to him—but it seemed almost friendly when Crowley did it. That made no sense to him, but he had heard of friends speaking to each other that way in jest. He shook his head to clear that thought: they were _not_ friends.

"What is it?" asked Crowley, mimicking Michael from earlier.

"Noth—" Michael started to say, but was cut off.

"Don't you dare."

Michael grimaced. "I was contemplating the nature of our relationship."

"Really?" This was going to be fun. "And which conclusions did you reach?"

"Eat your…" he had to look, "…penne, Crowley."

Crowley laughed. "Alright. I'll eat, you talk. What conclusions did you reach?"

"I had not reached any definitive conclusions," Michael said, "which is why I may have appeared confused."

"Let's talk through it, then. Work it out," Crowley said after he finished his mouthful.

"There is nothing to 'work out.' I am your client, and we happen to be engaging in a social gathering purely through an inconvenient occurrence."

"Some people would argue that's Fate," Crowley reasoned.

"Do _you_ believe in Fate?" Michael asked in revulsion.

"Of course not: I just like playing the Devil's advocate," Crowley snickered. "You should be used to that."

"I am," Michael confirmed, "but I deal with that enough at work; I do not wish to contend with it in pleasure."

"Oh, so I'm pleasant now?" Crowley asked triumphantly.

Michael immediately realized his mistake. "Of course not."

"Too late," Crowley gloated. "You've already admitted it."

"Fine," Michael grunted. "We are, then, friendly acquaintances."

"We could be friends," Crowley speculated.

"We could _not_ ," Michael argued, and his tone brooked no further argument.

Crowley pretended not to be put out by that. "Fine. Your loss."

Michael, however, was not finished. "How is it my loss? You are the one who seems almost desperate for a friendship."

"Maybe I find you intriguing," Crowley suggested.

"Hypothetically, if you did, what difference should that make?"

"Hypothetically, maybe I should like to get to know you better." Hypotheticals were common ground for the both of them.

"And how, hypothetically, am I supposed to answer that, if that is indeed the case?" Michael had not felt this challenged in a long time.

"Well that depends on how you would hypothetically feel if I had said that," Crowley remarked.

"Feelings are not taken into account in hypothetical situations."

"That's where you're wrong," argued Crowley, "especially if the situation discussed relies purely on subjectivity, not objectivity."

"Granted."

"So, hypothetically, how would you feel?"

"I suppose I would feel reluctant to accept any approaches of a personal relationship. I find friends to be tedious and unreliable," Michael said honestly. That was the closest he had come to revealing his feelings in years, but it was all hypothetical, so it counted less.

"So you would feel vulnerable." It was a statement, not a question.

"Objection."

Crowley laughed. "That's how you made it sound! I must have misunderstood. Please, correct me."

He had not misunderstood, and that was what irritated Michael. Seldom had anyone seen through him so completely. "Never mind."

"Oh, you must be _killer_ in court," Crowley mocked, and went back to eating.

Michael had to physically bite his tongue to keep from saying something he might regret. He felt—to his horror—a blush creep across his cheeks, which Crowley did not fail to notice. "This conversation has no bearing on my professional prowess."

"Fair point," Crowley admitted, internally scoring another point for himself. A blush from the iceman: truly miraculous.

Michael crossed his utensils neatly across his now empty plate and pushed it aside. He regarded Crowley impassively, hands folded neatly on the table as he waited for him to finish. Thankfully for both of them—Crowley was not enjoying being stared at—he had only a little left and also finished before long. The waiter cleared their plates and asked if they were getting dessert; Michael declined before Crowley could answer.

"What if I wanted dessert?" Crowley grumped at him.

"Hypothetically, if you wanted dessert, you would be out of luck," Michael retorted immediately.

Crowley frowned and then blinked at him. "Did you just…make a joke?"

"I attempted to," answered Michael, faintly embarrassed. He had not tried for humour in years and was unsure why he had started now.

"Well." This was beautiful: it was going exactly the way Crowley had predicted. He was seriously anticipating tears next. "Good job."

"Are you patronizing me?"

"No."

The bill arrived and Crowley took it, tucking a few twenties into the leather folder. He had tipped generously, having no change and cash to spare in any case. He set it back down on the table and stood, gathering his jacket.

Michael followed suit, tucking his chair neatly back under the table. "Thank you," he said graciously, offering Crowley his hand, which the other man firmly shook.

"My pleasure," he replied, and actually meant it. "Here." From the inside pocket of his jacket he produced a business card, which he handed to Michael. " _Email me,_ " he insisted with a small laugh. "Let me know what's going on with your wayward brother."

Michael allowed the ghost of a smile to cross his face, and Crowley was reminded once again how much more attractive it made him. "I will. Have a good afternoon."

It was a week later when Crowley heard from Michael again. It was nearly midnight when the tell-tale bell ringtone of an email issued through his phone. Crowley was used to getting flooded with emails, so he thought nothing of it until he saw the sender.

 _Mr. MacLeod,_ it read. _I have received the appropriate information from my brother, enclosed above. If you have any questions or concerns, do not hesitate to contact me. I believe we should meet to finalize the contract. Any time after next Saturday should suffice, as I am currently out of town. Regards, M. Shurley._

There was indeed a file attached which seemed to contain insurance information from a different (and lesser) company, as well as the electronic consent of one Lucifer Shurley to transfer companies. Crowley sighed deeply: he was at home right now and was booked solid for the entirety of the next three weeks. He could probably go to work early the next day and input Lucifer's information before his first appointment.

 _Michael,_ he began his reply, using the man's given name just to spite him. _I regret to inform you that if you want this done as quickly as possible we may have to arrange an informal appointment. Would you be offended if I invited you over for dinner and we finalized the contract then (hypothetically)? If this is not suitable, we will not be able to meet for nearly a month. Let me know as soon as possible. Thanks, Crowley._ He sent the email off with a chuckle; hopefully Michael would find similar amusement from it, in his own distinctive way.

When Michael received the message, he gave a sardonic snort and shook his head, but could not help but smile. Crowley was certainly one of the more unique people he had met. He quickly typed in a reply: _Mr. MacLeod,_ he greeted formally again to get the point across. _Hypothetically, it would not offend me to be invited to your residence to conclude our business deal. However, to save time and effort, I will simply here respond to the non-hypothetical offer you had most likely planned on making in your next email. Yes, I will meet with you at your home. When is the soonest date you are able to do so, and what is your address? Thank you, M. Shurley._

Crowley actually laughed upon reading that message and he quickly sent back his address, telling Michael to visit at six o' clock on Sunday evening. He then decided it was time to sleep, so he silenced his phone and did exactly that, though he could not help but wonder if their dinner would be as amusing as their lunch had been.

Crowley had already been witness to Michael's punctuality and was determined to be similarly diligent. He timed dinner to be ready at exactly six o' clock and was not disappointed as he heard a firm knock on his door just as he was pulling the roast out of the oven. Smiling slightly, he set it down on the stove and went to answer the door. "Good evening, Michael."

"Good evening, Mr. MacLeod," Michael returned coolly, entering the house when Crowley stepped aside. In an effort to be cordial, he said: "Whatever you made smells lovely."

"Thank you," said Crowley, taking his guest's coat. "And please, whether we're in business or out of it, call me Crowley. I'm not as stiff as you are."

"As you wish. But I still expect formalities to stand between us."

"Oh, just come in, would you? Shoes off, please."

Grimacing, Michael removed his shoes—he always wore them at home—and followed Crowley to the dining room, where the table was already set for two. He took a seat when offered.

"Would you like a drink? Water, milk, wine?" He entirely expected Michael to say water again, but he was pleasantly surprised.

"I will take a glass of wine, if you would not mind." Michael's hands were folded neatly on the table, and he was trying to examine the house without appearing as if he was doing so.

"Of course not; I offered."

Once the matter of drinks was settled and the food was dished out, Crowley looked up. "How was your trip?"

"Awful, frankly," Michael replied without hesitation. "I only left because I physically had to track my brother down."

Crowley stifled a laugh, realizing that Michael would not appreciate it. "That's unfortunate," he commented, raising his eyebrows. "Where was he?"

"Pittsburgh," Michael grumbled between bites; the food was really very good. "All the way across the damned country." He almost growled the word, his jaw clenching, though whether that was from the effort of the curse or the mere thought of his brother was unclear. Regardless, Crowley actually stopped eating for a moment to study him with an approving eye, one eyebrow quirking up even further. He cleared his throat slightly to break his marvel before answering.

"Right. Yes. Truly awful." He was now finding it hard to concentrate on the food; that had been one of the most attractive things he had ever been witness to.

"Are you alright?" Michael asked, and he seemed genuinely concerned.

"Yes. Yes I am. Perfectly fine." Crowley smiled at him and took a sip of wine—an excellent vintage from 1947. He resumed eating after that, resolving to better hide his attentions.

"You seem a little…flushed," Michael said with a frown. Crowley chose not to answer that, keeping his silence as they finished. It was a long silence, and an awkward one, but Crowley did not see the need to engage in further conversation, having already embarrassed himself enough. Michael watched Crowley in concern, the small crease between his brows deepening as time passed. Eventually though, they both finished and Crowley quickly cleared the table.

"You can make your way to my office," Crowley told Michael over his shoulder. "End of the hall, on the left." Michael nodded and followed his directions, coming to a cozy room with an electronic fireplace and a wooden desk. A couch rested beside a bookshelf opposite the hearth. There was a computer on the desk, which Michael imagined was connected to the company database. There was only one chair—that behind the desk—so Michael took a seat on one side of the couch. Crowley came in a few minutes later, bearing the bottle of wine and two clean glasses.

"Do you plan on getting intoxicated?" Michael asked in disapproval, eyeing the bottle.

"Of course not," said Crowley, insulted. "I'm a professional, you know." He had planned on getting drunk later, but that was no different than most other nights and there was no need for Michael to know that. "I just thought this deal would be easier to swallow with wine." He shrugged and set the glasses down on the desk before filling them and taking a seat behind his computer. "Though this should be relatively quick."

"I do not believe actual negotiations are necessary; it is simply a choice between three options, is it not?" Michael clarified. "And as for the facility of it…do you imagine the deal will be hard to swallow either way?"

"Depends how much you can swallow," Crowley chuckled, and just barely stopped himself from winking. This was not the time to be shamelessly flirting with a client. "I just mean that your pocketbook might suffer for a bit."

"That would be an issue, if it was just I who was paying. However, my brothers and I will be splitting the cost evenly. Please, get on with it."

"In a hurry?" Crowley wisecracked. "Or just can't wait to be rid of me?" But he did as Michael had asked, pulling up the correct file.

After a painfully long time in deciding, a deal was finally settled, at least between the two of them; Michael would have to contact his brothers for approval, or it could not be confirmed. Crowley gratefully shut the program down and took his third glass of wine that evening to go sit on the couch beside Michael. It was a rather large couch, so the two did not touch.

Michael was on his third glass as well, though he was barely aware of that fact. Truthfully, he was enjoying himself too much to be conscious of moderation, something he had not done in a long time. He was still conscientious enough to offer a handshake to terminate the business deal, which lingered too long on both of their parts.

"I suppose I should go," said Michael rather reluctantly. He made no move to get up.

"You could…stay for one more drink," Crowley suggested, hoping he sounded casual.

"I could, at that," Michael admitted gratefully. He took another sip of his wine.

"Unless you've got someone to get home to." Based on his previous conversations with the man, Crowley highly doubted it, but he wanted to make sure—for no particular reason.

"No," Michael said immediately, and then chuckled bitterly. "No, I've never had to worry about that."

"What a shame," Crowley mumbled, mostly to himself.

"Not for them."

"Them?"

"Those…eligible," Michael clarified.

"Why's that?"

"As I recall you saying, I _am_ 'marginally offensive.'"

"And as I recall me saying, 'let's work to fix that.' Besides, you said I was 'marginally offensive' too. Do you still find me so?"

"No," Michael admitted, looking down into his glass.

"Well, there you are then," Crowley smiled at him victoriously and raised his glass in salute.

"No matter," Michael argued. "My demeanour has not changed from when you last judged it."

"I have been known to misjudge…occasionally. I think that you're just misunderstood: wary around people because you've been burned so much. I'm the same way, I just express it differently."

"With biting sarcasm and infuriating wit?" Michael asked in false irritation.

Crowley laughed lightly. "Exactly."

"And yet, the only reason you have been exposed to me long enough to discover this is because we were forced to work together. Most people would not be interested past the first interaction."

"Oh…I think they might stick it out," said Crowley slyly, taking a drink to hide his smirk.

"Why should they?"

Crowley set his glass down and looked at Michael quizzically. "You honestly have no concept of how attractive you are, do you?"

"W-what?" Michael asked, stunned. He had to set his glass down—hard—lest he drop it.

"What?" Crowley asked innocently. "We're no longer on business, and you seem like someone who appreciates honesty."

Michael was silent for a moment, composing himself as he looked at his hand still around the stem of the wineglass. He finally looked up. "I…Are you making fun of me?"

"No!" Crowley shook his head. "Why would I do that?"

"You honestly find me attractive?" Michael asked tentatively.

"Very," Crowley confirmed. "Have you _seen_ yourself?"

"Never in that light."

"Understandable. But yes, I do." Crowley took another drink, leaning back to look the other man up and down approvingly.

Michael nodded, though he still had trouble entirely believing it. "Thank you."

Crowley grunted in acknowledgement. He was afraid he had overstepped his bounds. Indeed, it appeared the conversation had died, Michael now seeming very much focused on draining his glass. He set it down, empty, and spoke without looking up, almost mumbling the words.

"The feeling is mutual."

Crowley looked over at him in surprise. "What?" He had honestly not thought Michael capable of such approaches.

"You heard me; do not make me repeat myself." Michael was already embarrassed enough as it was, inevitably retreating back into his stony shell.

"Oh, don't be like that. Please. We're actually getting somewhere."

Michael simply grimaced. Crowley, rolling his eyes, got up to return the empty wine glasses to the kitchen, along with the bottle. When he returned, he sat much closer to Michael than he had been before, their knees brushing. To his pleasant surprise, Michael did not seem uncomfortable with this.

Michael was, in fact, just nervous. He had never given intimacy much thought before. For that reason, he had never been ashamed of his virginity, though he was acutely conscious of it now. He inhaled shakily, his heart racing.

Crowley had always been bold and saw no reason to change that now. Michael's bearing told him the other man was expecting him to do something, so he did. Reaching over, he laid a hand gently on Michael's cheek and turned his face towards him, leaning in for a soft kiss.

Michael thought he would be completely at a loss in this situation, but his instincts appeared to take over and he kissed back, his lips soft and warm. One of his hands went impulsively to Crowley's shoulder while the other lightly gripped his knee. He felt Crowley smile into the kiss and he had a moment of panic as he considered that he might have done something wrong, but it proved to be a smile of pleasure and not of mocking.

Michael was still tense, so Crowley pulled back, not wanting to force him into anything. He was about to say so, but Michael spoke first. "Don't stop." He was afraid that he would lack the courage to continue. Crowley nodded and kissed him again, turning towards him a little. He deepened the kiss this time, no longer wary of Michael's reaction, which was nothing but a pleasured groan. He had never been touched like this before and was now beginning to understand others' appetites for carnal pleasure.

Crowley lightly grabbed Michael's waist, his thumb running a smooth arc over the hollow of his ribcage. The warm press of his hand seeped through to Michael's skin, sending a shudder through him. Michael felt as if he was everywhere at once, simultaneously rooted deep within his body and expanding beyond the universe itself. So engaged was he in the touches that he forgot to breathe and had to pull away panting.

Crowley chuckled lightly. "Take it easy, love," he soothed, the term of endearment coming instinctively to his mind. "I'm not going anywhere."

Michael nodded breathlessly. "Forgive me my inexperience." He leaned his head back against the couch and closed his eyes, willing his respiration to regulate so he could continue.

Crowley, along with being bold, was also an opportunist; he took _this_ specific opportunity to lean over and press a kiss to the other man's neck, right below the jaw. He let his lips linger there before leaving a small trail of kisses along his jawline.

Michael felt the slight scratch of stubble before he registered the affections he was receiving. If he had shuddered before, he positively _trembled_ now. His eyebrows furrowed and he subconsciously tipped his head further back to give the other better access.

Crowley sat up for a moment, placing one knee between Michael's to straddle the leg closest to him. He pressed both palms to Michael's chest and nipped at the skin right below his ear. He smiled as he heard a low moan escape Michael and slid his hands down to his hips, under the suit jacket this time.

Michael responded immediately, locking his own hands around Crowley's back and drawing him closer; a knee now pressed against his groin, but it was far from uncomfortable. He wanted Crowley as close to him as possible, and he was used to getting his way.

Highly encouraged now, Crowley fumbled to push the jacket off Michael's shoulders, tossing it to one side so it draped over the arm of the couch. His own soon followed suit and he pulled off of Michael's neck, looking at him through fully dilated pupils: the irises appeared almost black.

"I told you…not to stop." Michael tried to sound assertive and only half-succeeded, prompting a smirk from Crowley. He enjoyed having the other man at his mercy, but he also enjoyed watching him squirm. He pulled away almost fully and watched Michael's jaw clench in frustration. "Crowley," he growled.

"Loosen up, would you?" Crowley teased, gently pressing a hand against Michael's chest to urge him to lie down. Michael, ever obstinate, resisted, taking his socks off first; Crowley had to acknowledge that was a good idea and did the same. Eventually however, he ended up lying on top of Michael, his legs settled lightly between the other man's. He wasted no time in resuming their kiss, urging it even deeper this time by running his tongue along Michael's bottom lip.

Michael parted his lips easily for Crowley with another small moan. In less than five minutes he had completely fallen apart, further than he had ever thought was possible. He dimly felt his shirt being un-tucked before there were warm, coarse hands on his bare skin. He gasped raggedly and his heart fluttered as Crowley's fingertips traced light patterns over his sides. Determined not to completely lose control, Michael reached up to loosen Crowley's tie and pull his shirt out from under his waistband. He did not dare touch him directly, however, fearing that his hands would be unwanted.

He had nothing to worry about; as soon as he felt Michael taking action, Crowley rolled his hips down. Consequently, Michael's hands ended up gripping his sides as the two of them ground together and Crowley slid his own hands farther up Michael's body to rest near the top of his ribcage. He drew them in a few wide circles over the man's skin before withdrawing them to undo his shirt and tie completely.

The cool air hitting Michael's bare chest caused him to inhale sharply, his surprisingly well-defined muscles tensing momentarily. Crowley had laid hands back on his chest and had pulled away from the kiss as Michael gasped and was now looking him over with an approving eye.

After the initial moment of shock, Michael looked up. "Is something wrong?" he asked of Crowley's pause in affections.

"No~!" Crowley chuckled. He forced himself to look from Michael's heaving chest back up to his face. "Is there any part of you that _isn't_ angelic?" he asked in awe. His fingers traced along the ridges in the hard muscle as he looked into green eyes nearly as lust-blown as his own.

Michael had no answer to that question, but it seemed Crowley had not been expecting one. His lips were once again on Michael's body, along his collarbone, as he hastily pushed the garment from his shoulders. Michael's eyes flew open and he let out another gasp as Crowley sucked a mark into his skin. "Oh…" he breathed, his fists bunching in the fabric of Crowley's shirt. He screwed his eyes shut and his eyebrows furrowed, giving way to another breathy moan.

Crowley was just getting started. From the mark he had left in the hollow of Michael's collarbone, he kissed up his neck to leave a similar mark just below his ear, rolling his hips down again and letting his hands roam all over the other's chest. He leaned up momentarily to undo his own shirt, but before he could get it off Michael had grabbed his previously loosened tie and dragged him back down, this time taking the initiative to force Crowley's lips apart with his own. He finished the job Crowley had started, throwing both of their vestments aside to the floor once he was done. He rolled his body up to press their chests together as he kissed Crowley almost desperately.

The burning tension in Crowley's groin was now almost too much to bear and he ground down even harder, trying to ease it. This provoked a licentious groan from him and he let his fingers dip into Michael's waistband. Crowley had no idea of his previous experience—or lack of it—but he seriously doubted the man underneath him was a virgin by the ravenous way he was kissing him. However, Crowley had been known to be wrong on occasion, as he had pointed out only minutes before. As such, Crowley also did not assume Michael would have a problem with pursuing further actions. On that count, he was correct.

In fact, Michael was desperate for more than he was getting. He spared Crowley the trouble by undoing his own belt and trousers and grabbing at Crowley's hands to keep them where they were when he felt them start to pull away.

Crowley needed no further encouragement to slide Michael's trousers down his legs, which were also well-muscled. He wondered idly when Michael found the time to work out, then felt further arousal as he pictured it. Once they were past his knees, Michael kicked his trousers off himself, which gave Crowley the opportunity to undo his own belt. The back of his hand brushed across the bulge in the front of Michael's pants as he did so, and Crowley was not disappointed with how _much_ he felt there.

Even that little bit of contact was enough to set Michael off again, pulling a noise that was half moan and half whimper from him, a noise he might have been ashamed of if he was not being pleasured far too much to care. He deepened the kiss even further, following Crowley's earlier example and slipping his tongue into the other man's mouth. He was surprised at how natural it felt and decided to press his luck further, pushing Crowley's trousers down as far as he could reach and then resting his hands on his ass.

Crowley wasted no time in removing his trousers the rest of the way and smiled slightly at Michael's hand placement, pressing into the touch a little. He brought his hands back to run up Michael's chest, then down and over the V of his hipbones. He teased his fingers over Michael's groin through the thin fabric of his pants.

Michael's cock twitched and he felt his stomach drop. He pulled away from the kiss with a gasp and asked breathlessly: "Are you clean?" He had to make sure, and he had heard sex was better skin on skin.

Crowley nodded, a little stunned at the sudden lack of contact. "Yes. Are you?"

"I am a virgin, so yes." Michael had no problem admitting it now, since he felt he was doing relatively well.

Crowley chuckled lightly and raised his eyebrows. "So not only are you the most attractive person I have ever laid eyes on, you're also a natural in bed. Of course." He got up reluctantly and walked over to the desk to procure the tube of lubricant he kept in there and returned to kneeling between Michael's legs.

Michael breathed a little easier when he saw: he already knew sex would hurt at first, but it seemed a little less daunting now. He nodded as Crowley looked into his eyes for confirmation and gave him a small smile, which erased the last of the doubt from Crowley's mind. He felt a smile from Michael was something special, since it did not happen often. He dropped his pants, adding them to the pile of clothing on the floor, and bent back down to kiss Michael while his hands worked at the other's pants.

Michael helped him along and felt an immense relief as his strained cock was finally freed and exposed. It pressed up against Crowley's as he rolled his hips again, and the friction felt so much better for the bareness of it.

Crowley worked at the lubricant, applying some to the palm of his hand and giving Michael's cock a few priming strokes before pulling off to circle his entrance with a finger, using his other hand to gently push Michael's thighs farther apart.

Michael's head fell back and his mouth dropped open, a long moan escaping him at the contact. He gladly spread his legs wider and clenched his fists at the teasing. "C-Crowley…Crowley, please…"

Crowley bestowed a few more light kisses to the smooth skin of Michael's neck where it flowed into his shoulder before leaning back up and pushing one finger in to the knuckle. Michael immediately clenched around him and cried out, biting his lip. Crowley was gentle with him now that he knew this was his first time, gently curving his finger and moving it in and out to get him used to the feeling.

Michael grabbed at Crowley's back frantically, his senses completely overwhelmed with pleasure. "D—" he stammered, having difficulty forming words. "Do not…hold back on my account—ah!"

"Whatever you want, love," Crowley said softly, running the thumb on the other hand along the hollow between Michael's leg and groin as he added a second finger from the first hand. "Relax…" he crooned, parting his fingers slightly to loosen Michael up and continuing to move them in and out.

The little bit of lucidity Michael had left went into heeding Crowley's words and he exhaled shakily, willing his body to relax. He took a few more breaths and got some cognizance back, suddenly reaching for the lubricant that Crowley had left beside them in the crease of the couch. He rubbed some over the palm of his hand and tentatively reached out to take Crowley in hand, stroking slowly to coat his cock.

Crowley let out a low moan. "Yes…" he breathed. His fingers began to move faster and his heart rate increased even further. "Oh, Michael…"

Feeling reassured, Michael picked up speed and finally fully relaxed. He was ready: more than ready—he _needed_ this, and he needed it _now_. He pulled his hand away and looked up at Crowley through half-lidded eyes, waiting with bated breath.

Crowley pulled his fingers out and gave Michael a lingering kiss to quieten his whimper at the loss of the feeling. He grabbed the other man's hips and pushed himself in with a groan. Michael moaned breathily and instinctively locked his legs around Crowley's waist, thrusting his hips up to deepen the contact.

Burying his face in Michael's neck and sucking gently at the skin there, Crowley began to rock his hips, thrusting slowly at first but gradually picking up speed. He felt Michael tighten spasmodically around him, and the other man's wanton moans only stimulated him further. Small grunts of pleasure fell from his slightly parted lips on each thrust, his breath hot and fast against Michael's neck. His hands came up to grip Michael's shoulders from beneath, making it easier to thrust harder and deeper.

Michael felt his cock twitch again as Crowley hit his prostate and he cried out his name, his head pressed fully back into the couch. He let himself be lost in the throes of his pleasure as he felt their bodies collide over and over again. Blunt nails scratched at Crowley's back; Michael was not even aware of his actions.

Crowley moved one hand down to grasp Michael's cock again and he began stroking to match the speed of his thrusts, trying to time it so they finished at the same time. He had not had sex in longer than he realized, so his climax was rising quicker than he anticipated.

Michael's head was swimming and his entire body felt hypersensitive. Shivers of pleasure ran repeatedly through his body as he felt Crowley's hand on him and he knew he was close to release already. Not wanting to be a disappointment, he held it in as best as he could and turned his head to try to capture Crowley's lips again.

Already focusing on two things, Crowley did his best to kiss Michael back, but found himself short of breath and having to pull away again. "Michael—" he gasped, the name falling from his lips. "Ah, I'm close, love."

Hearing his name breathed so vulnerably in that usually suave voice, so undone because of him, was what sent Michael over the edge. He shuddered as he released, coating Crowley's hand and his own chest and moaning the other man's name. His orgasm passed through him fiercely and his nails dug into Crowley's skin harder.

Overwhelmed by all of Michael, Crowley released moments after the other man. He rode out both of their orgasms without flagging and kissed Michael repeatedly as he did so. Slowly coming down off the high of pleasure, Crowley eased himself out and opened his eyes with some difficulty to look down into the green eyes that were staring back up at him: they seemed more alive than he had ever seen them and infinitely deep.

Michael sighed softly and relaxed once more, both his hands and his legs lowering. Now that his adrenaline had subsided, he was exhausted and was having trouble keeping his eyes open. He let them drift closed once more, not even hesitating to pull Crowley down to his chest.

Crowley did not resist, collapsing gratefully onto Michael. He was still breathing heavily and he closed his eyes as well, listening to Michael's heartbeat as it gradually returned to normal. He was half-asleep when Michael spoke.

"So…about this deal…when it is over…will we continue to meet?" Michael asked breathlessly, his voice soft and tinged with sleepiness.

Crowley laughed lightly, shifting so he was half on top of Michael and half nestled up to his side. He pulled the blanket from the back of the couch down over top of them and nodded, finding it amusing that Michael felt the need to even ask. Then again, he had never done this before, by his own word, so he would not know from experience.

"Yes Michael, I'm sure we can arrange some…terms."


End file.
